


Trapped Starling

by Prozzy



Category: Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 14:11:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17830058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prozzy/pseuds/Prozzy
Summary: AU fic. Clarice Starling is in the Baltimore State Hospital after shooting six people. Now she is being asked to be interviewed by Hannibal Lecter, a man himself who has a few secrets that could land him in the cell next to her.





	1. Chapter 1

It is all too easy to tell he is being watched. The pale blue eyes almost hidden in darkness are not very subtle as they rake over him, drinking in every piece of information they can. But there is promise, he tells himself silently, the knowledge being carefully placed away for use on another day. For now, it is all too easy to present to her the same careful mask he presents to the rest of the world. 

Calm and grace have not always come easily to him. It has taken years of careful work and self-taught restraint to present himself as he does. He wears it well, this carefully shaped mask, though if one had the chance they might see that it’s a tad too thin in some areas. The beast hidden beneath is starting to make more appearances as of late. The doctor blames it on the rudeness of those he encounters. Never himself.

He has his own faults. Rudeness is thankfully not one of them.

Stepping up to the glass, he raises his chin. Quiet and collected, he lets his own deep maroon eyes met the blue ones staring up at him. She is sitting on the floor, where the shadows are most prominent. An easy place to hide, and likely the only one in the too small cell. There is a cold intelligence in the gaze meeting his, a small pleasure he had not meant to find on this trip. Perhaps Crawford has not been wasting his time as much as he has assumed.

He can see the barest hint of straight white teeth in the darkness, and for a moment he wonders if she’s snarling at him. But no. It’s a smile. A cold smile, filled with a quiet malice that sends a small shiver of pleasure down his spine. He watches the smile grow as the watchful eyes take in the slight movement, though it widens for the wrong reason. 

The doctor leans over slightly, placing his briefcase down carefully next to the chair that has been left out for him. His gaze leaves her eyes, those pale blue eyes that take in far much more than he would wish them to, and trace over what little of her form he can see in the shadows. One foot and part of a calf are slightly illuminated by the light coming into her cell from the hallway, and he can see the shape of muscles just outlined by shadows. 

“Good afternoon,” his voice is smooth and open. A carefully constructed illusion to make patients feel like trusting him more. “My name, is Hannibal Lecter. I am here because Jack Crawford from Behavioural Sci-”

“I am aware,” her voice is cool and crisp. There is a slight hint of a Virginian accent, though the man can tell she tries hard to hide it. “Of who Jack Crawford is, Doctor Lecter.”

He watches with mild curiosity as the foot disappears into the shadows, though the sensation is almost washed away by a slight feeling of distaste. It is rude to interrupt someone when speaking, something the woman was obviously aware of when she spoke over him. Eyes narrowing ever so slightly, he begins to move to take a seat, but stops when he hears the faint rustling of clothing.

Hannibal looks up in time to see the woman emerge from the shadows, her footsteps silent and confident. She knows every inch of her cell, is Queen of everything in it and Empress of every soul hidden away in this lonely basement. Her back is straight, her chin lifted, and there is a certain level of calculation in her gaze he had not expected to find. It sends a quiet thrill of excitement through him. A pity she had gotten caught, she would have been truly formidable if she had the chance to grow into herself.

Now that she has emerged the doctor can take the time to study her. He can remember the pictures the newspapers had shown, though they paled in comparison to the woman standing before him now. A common thing in newspapers he found. Taking in her pulled back hair, he allows himself a small smile. Red. Strange, he remembered it being dark in the photos. Perhaps it had been dyed previously and now the true colour was appearing after so many years in captivity. And it had been cut recently, if the straight edged ends were anything to go by.

Her face was clean, unsurprising considering she was a prisoner, but the skin was smooth excluding a single spot just below her right eye on the curve of her upper cheek. The dark mark is from gunpowder, something that should have disappeared years ago but has stayed due to her constant picking of it and driving it deeper into her skin. 

Beneath loose fitting clothing, he can make out the slight hint of curves paired with well toned muscles. She is not particularly tall, he had expected her to come up to the level of his cheek, but she only just passes the top of his shoulder, and yet she seems tall. The way she carries herself and the way she demands respect from the way she stares him down makes her larger than her barely five feet. 

“Hello, Agent Starling.” He notices with some satisfaction that she twitches when she hears the title attached to her name. It is an obvious stab at her failed career, a career that should have begun with her solving the Buffalo Bill case. The doctor wonders if she ever fantasizes about what she might have been. A promising student at the Academy, she had graduated almost immediately after the Buffalo Bill case had finally been solved. The world should have been hers. 

And then she had gone and murdered more people. The thought makes him want to smile and chuckle gleefully. Whatever had happened down in Jame Gumb’s basement had broken the thin layer of protection that kept the true Clarice hidden from the world. If only he could have witnessed it. Such beginnings are always promising starts to the careers of serial killers. If she had had the chance he has no doubt Clarice Starling would have been America’s true Angel of Death. 

Lips curling in a slow smile revealing tiny teeth, he finally takes the seat left out for him. It creaks as he sits, the old metal joints worn down after years of use. The noise does not bother either of them, but it does set off a wave of screaming from two cells over. A cacophony he wishes he did not have to listen to, but will do so if only to have a brief look into the woman standing before him. 

The lights in her cell finally flicker on, illuminating her tiny kingdom in fluorescent white light. It takes him a moment to shift his gaze away from her to take it all in and then focus back on her. There is not much in her cell outside of the basic necessities. Her mattress has been folded in half to make a makeshift desk at the foot. Beneath the metal frame on the floor lays a pile of neatly stacked paper with crayons. There is nothing hung upon her walls, so he makes the assumption that it is for writing, not sketching.

She does not shift from foot to foot, her stance well balanced and poised for action. Hannibal is not surprised. From the way her body looks, she has obviously been keeping up with the training regimen she started in the Academy, or staying as close to it as possible. There is little else to do with her long days he expects.

He must admit, she is not exactly what he had expected to find. When he had first spoken with Crawford about the nature of the assignment, the other man had warned him that the woman was impossible to talk to. And yet the woman standing before him is currently anything but. Cold and distant? Yes, that he can accept. But the stark raving lunatic Crawford had warned him about is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she shall arrive later.

“Hello, Doctor Lecter.” The reply is slightly delayed for the man’s liking, but he has received one at the very least. 

“Are you aware of why I am here, Agent Starling?”

He watches her head tilt to the side, sending a stray piece of hair falling into her face. Blue eyes narrowing slightly, she hesitates for a moment before straightening. It is more than obvious why he’s here, the only reason she ever gets visitors these days is for profiling reasons. Mostly students at the academy hoping to make a breakthrough of some kind. His lips twitch in amusement at the thought. He doubts many of them are able to get much out of her.

“You’re here because Crawford asked you to do a profile on me. My guess would be that he believes you will be able to draw out a piece of information no one else has so far been able to.”

Hannibal can’t help but admire the way she speaks, careful and steady, as if she’s considering her words before she says them. It’s intriguing listening to the faintest traces of her Virginian accent struggle to come free of the constraints she’s placed on it. For a moment he cannot help but wonder if there are moments it ever manages to appear. It would suit her, he thinks, this girl from the country. His eyes run over her form again, and he has to amend that statement. Maybe not a girl. 

A small smile crosses his lips and he leans back in his chair. Crossing one leg over the other, he folds his hands and places them in his lap. “You are correct. Crawford has requested that I ask a few questions, nothing out of the ordinary I’m afraid.”

The woman says nothing in response, her eyes searching his before she inclines her head ever so slightly. He cannot tell if that means she will actually speak with him and answer his questions the way Crawford wants her to, but at least it is better than outright refusal. He watches as she slowly sinks to the floor again, legs crossing over each other, her movements smooth and graceful. When she sits, her back is straight and her arms rest on the tops of her thighs. She doesn’t speak, letting silence fill the space between them.

The doctor is only too happy to let the silence continue. He’s grown comfortable with silence throughout the years. It’s amusing, a game, waiting to see who will break the silence and speak first. It takes a few minutes, during which the two of them continue to listen to the screaming from a few cells over. He lets the yelling wash over him, imagining the man’s mouth being permanently sewed shut before other things are opened. He wonders what part of the man would taste best, perhaps his lungs carefully prepared in a warm sauce and served on small bed of jasmine rice with a few in season vegetables served on the side, dessert he believes would be a simple sorbet.

Sometimes it helps imagining the rude being taken care of.

“I attended a lecture of yours once, at JHU.” He smiles when she breaks. Yes, he had known it would come, but it is still nice to know he had been right in waiting for her. “You spoke about sociopaths and how best to begin identifying them. I believe you also mentioned possible forms of treatments that could be started in early childhood.”

Warm pleasure rushes through him at her words, settling in his chest. It is a great stroke to his ego to know another of his kind, or someone similar enough to his kind, knows something of his work. Perhaps it will be something to potentially bond over, if only so he can manipulate the answers Crawford so desperately wants out of her.

“I was not aware my studies on the treatment of sociopaths were followed so closely by FBI students.” 

Her lips twitch in what he assumes in amusement. “I was interested in a position in Behavioural Sciences, under Crawford. He always spoke highly of you and your studies, so it seemed like a smart idea to follow your research when I had the chance.”

It had said she was interested in a position beneath Crawford in her file, so far no new information. Not that he expected any this early into their session, if one could call this a real session. 

“What exactly do you remember of my research?” Perhaps the information Crawford wants to have will be hiding in the answers she gives him to the more general questions he asks.

“I remember your suggestions about starting treatment in children as early as five, because I disagreed with how early you believed it would be beneficial. I read your paper on behavioural treatments and the building of positive connections through the use of a reward based program and also disagreed with it.”

“You seem to disagree with a lot of my research,” Hannibal points out with a small smile, his tiny teeth showing themselves to the woman. 

Clarice finally pushes the stray lock of hair from her face, her mouth a small thoughtful line as she moves. He can tell that she’s thinking, trying to prepare her reply in a way that will be constructive and intelligent. 

“No, I would not say a lot of your research. Only some portions of it, and only when it comes to your ideas and belief on sociopaths. I believe your methods of diagnosing and treating don’t leave enough room for growth in young children.”

“You think I give out the diagnosis far too easily.”

Her gaze is direct and open when she answers with a steady, “In children? Yes.”

“Why do you believe that?” He asks her steadily, intrigued by what her answer might be. This isn’t the first time someone has disagreed with his research and his papers, but it’s the first time someone has talked rationally and reasonably, offering the chance to discuss why they do not agree with it.

“I believe that diagnosing any mental illness in anyone under the age of approximately twelve doesn’t leave room for the natural growth of the brain and personality.”

“You believe that treatment for such things as sociopathy and psychopathy change a child?”

“That’s what behavioural therapy is meant for, Doctor Lecter.”

“So what would you suggest then, Agent Starling? No diagnosis in children under a certain age? You do realize that by diagnosing children and starting such things as behavioural therapy may be the only way to change future behaviours.”

“Change but not always eradicate.” He watches the woman shake her head ever so slightly, her expression is focused and thoughtful, something that makes his small smile grow. “Behavioural therapy cannot be used alone, Doctor Lecter. It has to be used alongside medication and other programs of therapy. By starting such therapies in young children you have the chance to severely damage their growth, not only in the brain, but with their personalities as well. For all you know the child could have grown out of the symptoms as they aged.”

He nods slowly, understanding her point of view. Of course diagnosing anything came with the chance of a misdiagnosis, and therapy wasn’t always the best solution for everyone. The chances of it hurting someone were always present. After all everyone responds to treatments differently, it was why he was able to pick a few off here and there.

Leaning back in his seat a little, he tilts his head ever so slightly to the side as he takes in what she’s said. If he was to be honest with her he would admit that he does not believe that there is a cure for sociopathy, or even psychopathy. Much of what he has written in his papers is to keep the masses happy and to provide himself a cover. He has to admit though, there is a curiosity beginning to form about what she believes to be the right way to diagnose and treat either.

“And what would you recommend for a treatment, Agent Starling? Punishment for those who have it?”

“Medication, therapy, and an environment that’s better suited to their needs.”

“You of all people should know, Agent Starling, that medication and therapy are only constructive when the person is willingly seeking treatment.”

He notices her bristling ever so slightly. Blue eyes narrow as she digests what the doctor’s said to her. The sound of her mind working is almost palpable. For a moment he wishes he could see inside of her mind to listen in on what she’s thinking. 

“I of all people, Doctor Lecter?”

Hannibal can hear the growing anger in her voice, the defensiveness that suggests she might begin to close up on him. Sighing silently, he shifts slightly in his seat and wonders how best to climb out of the hole he’s accidentally climbed into. Putting on what he hopes is a charming and reassuring smile, he brushes a piece of lint from his pant leg more calmly than he truly feels.

“If you’ve followed my research on sociopaths so closely, Clarice, you must follow the research of others. So when I say ‘you of all people’ I am simply making a reference to your rather wide knowledge of the subject.”

Her blue eyes narrow, and the corners of her lips tighten minisculely. If one was not paying close attention they could miss the emotions and thoughts running across her face, but they are there if you look close enough. For a moment he wonders how closely anyone has bothered to look, even when she was in court being tried. Obviously not close enough if Crawford’s asked him for a profile.

“So then what would you recommend, Doctor Lecter? A simple system of rewards for every good behaviour shown? Even you have to see that system would be easily manipulated even by the stupidest of sociopaths.” 

Slowly, Hannibal shook his head. He could more than easily see the flaws in the theories he had put forward, has seen them even as he had written them, but when he done it mostly to hide his own shortcomings he hadn’t really stopped to care. He still found himself not entirely able to. 

“You talk as if I actually believe that there are cures for sociopaths, Agent Starling.”

“You’ve written papers on potential cures, doctor. If you didn’t believe there were cures why write a paper about them?” One eyebrow rises. She is hoping to trip him up, to catch him in a moment of stupidity that she will be able to hold over him, to use as an excuse not to speak with him further.

If he were anyone else it might have worked.

“Those papers were written years ago, before several studies came out to prove that such treatments unfortunately do not cure sociopaths. Unfortunately, Agent Starling, in the years since writing those papers I, and much of the community, have come to the conclusion that there is no real cure for it.”

Her chin rises a little, and he sees a flash of what he thinks might be desperation or fear in her eyes. But before he can determine if what he saw is right or not, it’s gone, replaced by her usual careful neutral expression. For a moment he considers why she might have felt such a thing. One of the possibilities that comes to the doctor’s mind is that she herself believes that she’s a sociopath. Laughable, really. While she shows several possible symptoms of being a sociopath, he knows she doesn’t have the more telling ones. 

Silence descends upon them again, with Clarice unable to provide him with a response. He doesn’t mind. Silence has always fit comfortably over him, and from the way the woman sits relaxed on the floor of her cell before him, he can tell that silence feels the same to her. So they sit together, watching and appraising each other. One separated from the world by Plexiglas with holes, the other a part of the world but only by need. 

He takes a moment to consider what he’s learned of the woman. She is polite, except for the one interruption, but he is willing to rule that out as a rare occurrence; intelligent, as shown by her understanding and interest in his research; level-headed, which he had not expected to find after reading the report Crawford had given him; and most importantly, she is fearful. That he is more than certain no one else has been able to figure out. Clarice Starling hides her fear well behind a mask he believes few can or will ever be able to penetrate. But it is there.

And it is a useful tool for him. 

Hannibal does not often have the chance to converse with someone like himself. Well someone partially like himself. He finds the idea more than a little intriguing, and finds himself considering the idea of speaking with her again. It wouldn’t be hard to convince Crawford to let him continue speaking with her. A simple request to complete a more in depth profile on the woman over a longer period of time will be more than sufficient for him. He’ll have to set aside some time during his week for Clarice. 

Looking down at his lap where his hands still rest, he briefly turns his left hand to check the time. The watch’s second hand ticks by slowly, and the minute hand shows that the hour Frederick Chilton has ungraciously given him is almost over. Frowning to himself, he silently makes a note to talk to Crawford about Chilton giving him more access to Clarice in the future. 

The woman notices the frown and the doctor hears the rustle of clothing as she leans forward ever so slightly. She believes the frown to be a show of emotion that she will be able to use to her advantage; however, she will quickly learn that she is wrong. 

“Is there a problem, Doctor Lecter? Somewhere else you have to be?” Is it just his imagination or is there a note of mild disappointment in her voice? She must be hoping to have more fun with him before he leaves.

It takes less than a heartbeat for him to realize that in this moment truthfulness might prove more beneficial to him than a lie. There was a vague mention of her dislike for the man who pretend to be King of her in her file, perhaps it would be wise to use this. “Unfortunately, Doctor Chilton has only given me permission to be here for an hour. An hour that he has sadly used most of on how to instruct me. Sadly, I don’t believe his instructions on how best to interact with you have proven very useful.”

At the mention of Chilton, Clarice’s lips twist in a sneer. It’s a beautiful sight to watch. Her lips, what he would assume would normally be a nice soft shade of red but are currently more white than red, stretch over two lines of perfect teeth that speaks of years of meticulous care. The more he explains the situation, the more the sneer turns into a snarl. 

She must hate Chilton as much as he does to show such an expression to him. The thought fills him with warm pleasure. Perhaps there will be a certain level of pleasure to be gained from any further talks they have and not just for the answering of several of his louder curiosities. 

“Let me guess,” Clarice’s voice is low with forced humour as she forces her snarl back into it’s sneer. It’s a fascinating process to watch. Hannibal watches as the woman forces air into her lungs and pauses long enough to push the deeper parts of her rage to the side for later. With more practice she could hide it better than she currently does. She’d be terrifying if she ever did.

“Do not approach the glass. Do not pass her anything with an edge. Do not let her inside your head.” He has to blink as she slips into an easy imitation of Chilton. She’s obviously spent a decent amount of time working on it. Another way to pass the long hours trapped in her cell.

She slowly uncrosses her legs and pushes herself to her feet. Her gaze does not entirely meet his now, and he can’t help but wonder why. Perhaps it is the fact that she has shown him more than she potentially wanted to. Not that she would know about his mental notes on her fear. He doubts she realizes that he managed to catch the brief glimpse of it he had. Or perhaps it is the reminder that she is stuck in a cage and is now unable to control the currents of her life. Whatever it is, he can tell that she has now thrown up a shield so strong he’ll be unable to get through. 

“It was pleasant speaking with you, Doctor Lecter.” Clarice’s voice is detached and already sounds as if her mind is far away, focusing on some stray thought that has managed to catch her attention.

She turns away from him and silently pads across her tiny cell to the far side where she has a small stack of books waiting for her. All are either mass market or have had their covers ripped off, a sight that pains the doctor. A book should ever be treated in such a way. For a moment he imagines Chilton ripping the covers of the poor book off and his vision turns momentarily red. 

When it clears he can see Clarice curled up in a corner of her cell, knees pulled up to her chest and a well worn book held carefully in her hands. Even from this distance, he can see her eyes moving slowly as she reads, clearly taking it all in with a concentration he knows he will not break, and admires her slightly for it. Maroon gaze still locked on her, he reaches for his bag and gently picks it up. With one smooth motion, he pushes himself to his feet. 

He had meant to ask her about how she would potentially feel about more visits in the future, but he’s not going to get an answer now. The Empress has dismissed him, and he must accept it. For now at the very least. 

The drive back to his home has him turning over what he has learned about Clarice Starling. Fear is an important emotion to have, and one the doctor seldom feels. It’s what keeps what little humanity he has left together, though it’s been a lifetime since it’s been anything resembling decent condition. Her fear leaves an unfamiliar taste on his tongue, almost metallic and slightly bitter. It’s slightly unpleasant, though it does have the promise of something better hidden away.

It’s as the man is pulling into his driveway that he comes to the conclusion that he will visit the woman again. His curiosity in her has risen since he’s left the sanitarium, until it has become an itch he cannot scratch. He throws the car into park and sits, staring out the windshield for a moment and allowing himself a moment’s more thought about Clarice. Outside the car the wind blows through the empty branches of the trees, rattling them together in the familiar sounds of autumn in the north-east. 

Grabbing his bag from the passenger’s seat, he exits the car, taking care to lock it behind him. It’s a paranoid habit he’s picked up over the years. It would be far too easy for some too observant agent or officer to get in as it was if they ever tried to look too closely, might as well try and make it a little bit more difficult for them. He stuffs his keys into the right pocket of his coat, the same pocket as always. Some might call it obsessive, and there are times the doctor would agree with them, but more often than not he simply does it because he believed everything has its place. His keys simply belong in the right pocket of his coat. 

It was only a few steps to the front door, but he takes his time, enjoying the last few warm rays of sunshine of the season and the light breeze. Thankfully the door is easy to unlock, a few buttons pressed to put in his combination and he’s in. The silence and warmth of the house is inviting. It envelops him and smooths away some of the stresses of visiting the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane has created. 

Toeing his shoes off, he nudges them into their place at the door before setting his bag down to the side of the hallway. He pulls his coat off in two smooth motions and drapes it over the arm of the chair set just to the side of the arch leading into his sitting room. Walking down the hall towards the kitchen, he replays the moment he first caught scent of her fear over and over in his mind, analyzing everything he can. While fear is a useful tool, it does not take much to push an individual too far and he must be careful when using it. Crawford would not appreciate losing Clarice more than he already has.

Stepping into the kitchen, the doctor makes his way towards the fridge and opens the door. Reaching in, he pulls out a glass container with a red lid off of the middle shelf and places it on the counter. His afternoon on the phone with Crawford, followed by the visit to Clarice Starling has left him less time in his evening than he is used to. Ah well, he has been looking for an excuse to begin starting on the leftovers he has from this past weekend. 

Heating his dinner and placing it on a plate takes only a few minutes. The longest part of putting his dinner together is choosing which of his wines would best go with the lamb. Ultimately he settles for a southern Rhône red, one of his more preferred reds. Pouring the wine into the glass, Hannibal admires the deep red of the liquid. He sets the bottle down on the counter and raises the glass, swirling the wine carefully before taking the tiniest sip. Just as perfect as he remembers it being. 

Dinner is it’s usual quiet and careful affair. The man takes his time enjoying the well cooked lamb and exquisite wine, letting the flavours of both drown his senses. He sits at the table for a few minutes once the food and wine are gone, enjoying the sensation of being satisfied. A feeling he didn’t get from his meeting with Clarice, granted he had received less answers than he had gone in hoping for. 

Running his fingers along the edge of the dining room table, the doctor considers the positives and negatives of calling Crawford tonight in order to set up more talks with his disgraced student. Perhaps it would be best to do it tonight, while the man still believes he owes the doctor a favour. Sighing quietly to himself, Hannibal presses his palms flat to the surface of the walnut table, and pushes himself to his feet to collect his dishes. Once everything has been carefully placed in the sink, and a mental note made to wash them later, the doctor makes his way to his study to make a few notes and call the head of the Behavioural Sciences Unit.


	2. Chapter 2

Her pistol fit comfortably in the palm of her hand, the tape she had placed along both sides of the grip rubbing roughly against her skin. It felt right holding it, like it was a piece of herself. Without it, she felt naked, different from herself. Strange how fast such things become a part of you. It had barely been a week since she had graduated from the Academy, a little over a month since she had believed herself to be on top of the world, going anywhere she wanted. 

Too many things could change in a month. She had learned that the hard way.

Ahead of her she could hear the sound of footsteps, the soft sounds made louder by the enclosed space of the hallway. Following them, even in almost darkness was easier than she thought it would be. A nice change of pace compared to the last time she had stalked someone in the darkness. 

The fear from her chase with Buffalo Bill had all but disappeared, a memory of the past and nothing more. All that was left in its place was the warm rush of pleasure that had appeared in her breastbone after a job well done. It had been weeks since she had shot the man, and she had noticed that the warm, steady glow had started to fade. She had tried several different things in a desperate attempt to make it stay, but it had finally almost guttered out. 

And then she had been assigned to a cold case. One that Crawford had hoped she’d be able to find new information on. It’d taken days of hard searching to find something to help with the case, and it had been far too small when it finally had come. It had been nothing more than a single book that had been taken from the scene and found in the man’s care. Nothing concrete, but the moment Clarice had seen it she had known. Could see it in the way the man sat in the chair across from Baltimore police and waved off their accusations.

It hadn’t been enough proof for anyone, not even Crawford. The man who had promised to trust her and put faith in her after she had shown him her worth. It had stung more than a little bit, and had left her feeling lost and uncertain of her place in the FBI. So when she had run into the man out on the street, free and able to do whatever he so pleased, the agent had felt something snap. 

It wasn’t fair that he got to walk free while his victims were dead. Not fair that the man had taken the lives of eight different people and got to walk around pretending the world hadn’t changed. Because it most certainly had for the families of his victims. People who were now realizing that bad things happened to everyone, not just strangers that you heard about on the news. They were realizing that never again would they get to talk to their loved ones and say things that needed to be said.

Following the man, Clarice slipped a hand into her coat, making sure her gun was cocked and ready. These days it usually was, but she had the urge to check all the same. It was a motion she barely registered, months of training had driven the concept of preparedness into her mind. She allowed herself a moment to feel appreciative towards her instructors, they had trained her well, and it was how she knew she was going to get out of this without any trouble.

She heard the man in front of her stop, and she hurried to follow suit, not wanting to run into him just yet and give herself away. The man’s breathing only just reached her ears, a soft panting that made her wonder what the man had done recently to exert himself. Perhaps it had been the walk up the stairs, the man wasn’t exactly fit, his broad stomach making the task difficult. The agent heard a soft sniff, and for a moment she panicked thinking a slight trace of the perfume she had applied yesterday might still be lingering on her skin. But the man simply muttered under his breath and continued walking.

A faint sigh of relief left the woman as she followed along behind him, careful to place her feet just so on the hardwood floor so that it wouldn’t creak beneath her. Her skin prickled as she moved, and every so often her heart skipped a beat in anticipation. She can almost feel the man’s death rushing through her, a justice for the women he had wronged over the many years he’d been active. 

She was close, so close. It would only take a moment longer of stalking him. She wanted him to turn the light on in his room, to know who it was that had finally caught up to him and gotten justice. The agent could hear the rustle of his clothing, could smell the unpleasant odor of his body as he lifted his arm to turn on the light. Reaching for her gun again, she made sure to push her coat away from her arm, leaving it free. It would be stupid to come so far only to be slowed down by the edge of her coat.

The faint click of the light switch reached her ears, and the woman smiled to herself. It was almost time. She could feel her heartbeat beginning to pick up speed beneath her ribs, the hard pounding growing with every almost silent step she took. All of a sudden the beat filled her skull, pushing everything out of it’s way and demanding to be heard. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to take a moment and regain her thoughts. She wouldn’t be able to keep the kill clean if her thoughts were clouded and she let herself give into the damn sound.

Forcing air into her lungs, she raised her pistol upwards slowly, the muzzle of the gun extending away from her in a straight shot towards the man. It was so easy, required barely a thought on the agent’s part. Holding her breath, she let the oxygen flow through her until it sat at the base of her skull, filling her with sudden awareness. Her finger tightened around the trigger- 

“It’s been months since I’ve heard your voice, Clarice.” 

All of a sudden the room around her is white. Painfully so. The darkness melts away, withdrawing into the corners of her cell before disappearing altogether. Anger forms a hot band around her chest, restricting her from breathing too deeply. Breathing shallow, she lets her eyes take their time to adjust in the harsh light of her cell. She has learned over the years that forcing such things rarely ends well, and if she was to stop and think about it she’d likely come to the conclusion that with all the time she has she might as well take her time doing things.

Slowly, the ex-agent raises her head so she can look at the man before her. Blue eyes narrowing ever so slightly in distaste, she doesn’t allow herself any other signs of her hatred for the sanitarium's director. She has long ago brought everyone to an understanding about her position in this place, all who work the hall and call it their personal hell know that in the end she’s in control, her word is a certain kind of law. 

Chilton is different. 

There are very few ways of controlling the man, and none of them last for long, his mind too easily distracted and able to grasp onto things of length. Although weak minded and more manipulatable than he believes himself to be, he refuses to serve any purpose but one that appears in his best short term interest. While she might be able to manipulate the tests he throws at her, she knows that she will never be able to manipulate the man as well as she might wish because she refuses to provide him any immediate satisfaction.

And that’s not to say that she hasn’t tried. Clarice had spent the first year of her captivity trying to manipulate the man into giving her what she wanted. She had tried everything she could could think of. The only things that had seemed to make the man even remotely interested in following the leads she tried to hand him were sexual appeal and the possibility of his advancement in whatever field he imagined himself being an expert in. And even then it had never lasted long.

It makes her smile to remember her attempts.While it might not have gotten her very much at least it had been entertaining. For a short period of time at least. These days it was simply easier to ignore the man and his probing questions on the rare occasions he decided to grace her with his presence. The only downfall to ignoring him was the punishments he decided to hand out as he left. Her poor books and few pencils had felt the brunt of his anger far too many times. 

Lines appear on the man’s face as he watches her smile. The skin around his eyes and mouth are pulled slightly into slight furrows, as if they have never been used in such a fashion. She knows that they have, though the scowls are usually quickly covered by the falsely bright smile he’s tried to perfect over the years. Clarice wonders if he knows that the smile just makes him appear slightly constipated. Chilton might believe himself to be a fairly decent looking man, highly desirable by any woman in Baltimore, but the smile paired with his wandering eyes would be enough to make any sane woman shudder in disgust.

Head cocking to the side, the woman studies the man before her. Once upon a time she would have said her feelings for the man were nothing more than simple frustration at her jailing, but now she knows better. Disdain and disgust war with the lingering fury she has for the man. More often than not she’s able to push aside the burning anger and speak to him coolly and crisply, her answers short and given in such a way that even Chilton would not be able to misunderstand. However, it gets harder to keep her conversations with the man toeing the line of politeness. Maybe it’s because of the continued confinment to her tiny cell.

She pushes that thought aside for later consideration. For now she must decide if she wants to speak with Chilton and give him something he might be able to use. Eyes running over his body, she reads his body as best as she can through the glare of fluorescent lights. Another mental note is made to talk to Barney about potentially switching the current bulbs out for something a little dimmer. 

Opening her mouth, she takes a slow breath in, satisfaction rushing through her as she watches the man lean forward a little. His fingers play with the thin form of a pen, a rather expensive one judging from the faint shine of metal she can see. He is eager for anything from her, anything he can twist and use to show the scientific community that the doctorate he pretends to have is worth something. It only takes her a moment to come the conclusion that tonight she will give him a few moments of her time. 

She’s only just gotten her books back from the last time she had decided to ignore the man. 

Glancing away from Chilton, she shifts on the cold floor, her muscles starting to protest the prolonged position. Her tongue slides across her dry lips, and for a moment she wants nothing more than a tube of chapstick. It’s oddly enough the simple things that she finds herself missing the most. Maybe if she asks nicely Barney will bring some in for her one day. He’s usually considerate about such things, one of few reasons she respects the man. 

“I don’t have anything to say to you.” She finally speaks to the man, comfortable with talking now that she’s no longer watching the man try to devour her with his eyes. Such things have never made her comfortable. 

The sound of Chilton shifting from foot to foot reaches her. Impatience has always been one of the man’s many flaws, along with his tendency to get riled by inmates far too easily. If the man hadn’t alienated her years ago she would have been more than happy to points out his flaws to him and give him ways to fix them, but she’s long past such ideas. 

“And yet I have much I wish to hear from you, Clarice.”

“I would prefer, Doctor Chilton, if you would refer to me as Starling. You may use Miss if you so wish.” It’s not the first time she’s said as much to him, and she knows that this time the warning will once again go unheeded, but she has to at least try. Perhaps if she says it enough times the message will finally sink through his neatly coiffed hair into his less than functional brain. 

Clarice glances back at the man in time to see him scowl at her in frustration. The obvious display of emotion has her relaxing ever so slightly. Speaking with Doctor Lecter earlier in the day had thrown her off ever so slightly. The man had shown little signs of true emotion, and she doubted many of the smiles she had received were completely genuine. It had been both fascinating and frustrating to experience. 

“Clarice, I would like to know what you and Doctor Lecter spoke about this afternoon.” Chilton’s voice is edged with impatience, and she can hear the faint note of whining in his voice. He must be upset that his most prized possession has spoken with another in ways he can only dream about. She briefly wonders if Chilton is jealous of the other man and his real degree. It’s more than likely that he is, would only be natural for him to be envious of another who has what he wants.

Tossing her head back a little and moving some hair from her face, the woman leans back against her cell wall a little more. Back and shoulders straight, she doesn’t have to really use it, but it’s a nice way to prop herself up every so often. Makes her feel safe with something to her back. 

“We were talking about research.” Not entirely a lie, but not entirely an answer either. Perhaps she will be able to tease the man a little before giving him something of substance to chew on for a while. 

“I see.” Chilton’s usual voice is normally enough to make her want to punch the man’s face in. But when the undeserved note of self-importance begins to creep in the ex-agent finds that the feeling grows. “And what exactly was so interesting about research?”

“Well, Doctor Chilton,” her voice is sickly sweet as she answers him. “When you conduct proper research your hypothesis can either be proven correct or incorrect. Either way it’s an opportunity to learn more about particular subjects. And a good way to stop oneself from looking like a complete ass in front of people who can control the outcome of your career.”

It’s a rather obvious poke at one of the man’s many attempts to publish papers about her. An attempt that ended with him submitting a paper to a journal she herself had ended up writing a piece for. In his paper he had tried to prove that certain parts of her brain did not function correctly, hence making her more prone to violence and dark thoughts. Her paper on the other hand had been on how easily it was to fool most psychiatric tests, and highlighted the need to use CT and MRI scans when conducting tests. 

She hadn’t mentioned to Chilton or in her paper that in her mind parts of his thesis were correct. Oh no, that was a private thought that she only allows herself to dwell on during the deepest parts of the night.

Clarice watches with a small measure of satisfaction as the man’s face begins to turn red. It’s always an interesting experience watching the blood rush to Chilton’s face. It starts on the highest points of his cheekbones and quickly begins to spread to his lower face. His forehead is always the last patch of skin to turn red, and he always flushes to the roots of his ridiculously styled shit coloured hair. 

“Re-research can be conducted as one sees fit, Clarice.”

Her smile grows as the man stumbles over his words. 

“Starling,” she repeats again for no other reason than simply for the vain hope that one day she can stop wanting to flinch every time the man uses her name. “And while research can be conducted as one sees fit, the tests being done should be carefully considered and reviewed for any potential failings. Such as-”

“Such as the chance that an insane FBI agent may have previously studied the tests and been able to manipulate the outcomes to reflect what she desired it to.” 

Clarice blinks as one of Chilton’s rare moments of actual intelligence shows itself. They do not happen often, and she herself has only been witness to a handful of them in the six years she’s been in sanitarium. When she had first been sentenced they had been a pleasant surprise, and she had held out hope for the man, these days however they are more of an annoyance than anything else. 

Shaking her head slowly, she stretches out leg out in front of her on the floor. The current conversation is starting to bore her even with the brief flash of intelligence from the man. Her smile fades until her lips are simply a straight line of boredom. Letting her eyes close fully, she rests her head against the wall. Her nose wrinkles slightly in distaste as she feels the bumps and cracks of the bricks against her scalp. Maybe one day they’ll move her to a cell with slightly nicer walls. Ones that she’ll be able to rest comfortably on when she really needs to. It’s highly unlikely, but she can hope for it.

Hope is one of the few things she has left. Hope and memories.

Chilton begins speaking again, trying to draw more from her. Though his attempts are in vain. She no longer wishes to speak with him. Past experience has taught her that he will continue to stand and try to speak with her for a while longer. His high voice fills her cell, pushing at her mind and demanding entrance, but she stubbornly pushes it back. He’s tried to take her body and in some ways he’s succeeded, she will not let him have her mind. 

Instead she focuses on thoughts about a book she has just finished reading. She does not have the pleasure of having many books, so all that she has have been well read throughout her years in the sanitarium. Requesting more would mean going through Chilton and she’s more than certain that the man would refuse all requests for more literature simply to make her life a little more miserable. Perhaps a politely worded letter to Crawford or whoever was senator would help. Or perhaps Barney would be willing to sneak in a few more books for her if she promised to continue acting reasonable for him. 

Hearing heavy breathing, she opens her eyes and finds Chilton staring at her hard. It’s as if the man believes he can pull the answers from her simply by staring at her. The very idea of the man getting a hold of anything inside her head makes her lips curl in disgust. An expression that does not go unnoticed by the man. Anger slips over his face, narrowing his eyes and pulling at the corners of his mouth. A sharp snort of disapproval leaves the director before he turns on his heel and takes off down the corridor.

The familiar cries and screams of her fellow inmates greets the sudden appearance of Chilton in the hallway. In a way it soothes Clarice. Life in the sanitarium follows a certain pattern that rarely deviates. The noises of protest from her fellow inmates after seeing Chilton are simply part of that pattern. 

She waits until she hears the gate at the far end of the hallway buzz open and slam shut before she pushes herself to her feet. Socked feet making no noises against the concrete floor, she crosses the small space of her cell to stand in front of the glass separating her from the rest of the world. In it, she can make out a faint reflection of herself. One of few times when she can actually see herself in anyway as Chilton has forbidden her to have mirrors. 

If she presses herself against the glass on the west side of her cell she can see almost all the way down the hallway. When the lights are off in her cell the shadows tend to group together there, she blames it on the lack of proper lighting outside her cell. But it’s a good spot for watching who’s coming, in fact she had used it earlier in the day to watch Doctor Lecter walk towards her before she had thrown herself into another patch of shadows. 

Her first impression of the doctor was one of bored disbelief. He was not the first to come and try to speak with her. Others had tried in the past and failed. Their reasons for failure varied, but more often than not it was simply they didn’t understand what had been placed before them. It was simply something she was used to these days. She had thought most had grown wise to their inability to gain anything meaningful from a visit with her. 

And then they had started talking.

He had managed to intrigue her and she had opened for him. If one could call what she had said to him truly opening. But still it had been more than anyone else had managed to get from her. It was unlikely that the doctor had realized that.

Clarice begins pacing lengthwise across her cell, the glass to her right then her left. Her long legs eat up the distance from one wall of her cell to the other in only a few short steps, but she doesn’t care. It’s movement and movement helps her think. She replays her conversation with Lecter over and over in her mind until she can almost see it playing out again before her.

It had been nice speaking with him, even though he had taken what she had said and turned it back on her. It was rare that anyone made her stumble, and she was impressed that the man had managed it. Smirking slightly to herself, Clarice pushes a piece of hair from her face again and tucks it behind an ear. She should have known better after seeing the man lecture several years before. He’s intelligent, fiercely so, and she finds herself with a renewed sense of respect for it. However, with it comes a sense of loss at not being able to speak to the man more. 

That she’s knows is her fault. But her impersonation of Chilton had left her with a sense of frustration and a desire to be free of the man who tried to lord over her. 

Sighing, she rubs her face with her hands and leans against the glass. There is so little in her world these days perhaps it would have been best to ignore her feelings during her time with Lecter and simply enjoy the conversation. A little too late now to change such things, but she would know better for any future meeting she had with anyone with something resembling intelligence.

Hearing the buzz of the gate again, she raises her head and turns it to watch the hallway. It’s about feeding time, or at least that’s what her internal clock tells her. As Barney appears in the dim lighting, she allows herself a small smile. The man is not overly intelligent or overly educated, but the two of them manage to have decent talks. She enjoys hearing about the gossip he likes to share with her, and in return she tells him stories about her time in Quantico. It’s not a perfect arrangement, but it works.

The two exchange a smile of greeting. Clarice, knowing the procedures by heart, steps away from the glass and into the center of her room. They are both aware of how thick the glass is, and how utterly impossible it is for her to harm him, but the procedures are something they both follow nonetheless. She believes it to be a physical sign of trust between them, and will continue to do it until the day one of them leaves the sanitarium. 

Barney sets her dinner in the feeding tray and slides it through. Withdrawing, he sits himself down on the chair that only a few hours ago had held Doctor Lecter. When he’s seated and comfortable, Clarice reaches into the tray and grabs the roll off of her plate. Ripping it in half, she sticks a piece of it in the watery gravy covering her mashed potatoes before taking a bite. It’s plain and dull food, but at the very least it’s more edible than some of the meals she used to make herself. 

The woman turns her gaze to Barney as she slowly chews, ready to hear about the day’s gossip. Instead she’s greeted by a query about her visit with Lecter. “Doctor Lecter, now he didn’t seem overly disappointed as he was leaving today, Miss Clarice. Ya finally give one of them what they were lookin’ for?”

Smiling, she lifts her plate from the feeding tray and carefully sets it on the ground in front of Barney. She sits behind it, a graceful motion of bending legs. Her torn roll is placed on the edge of her plate, and she grabs a piece of under cooked broccoli to take a bite from. A soft hum leaves the woman as she chews thoughtfully for a moment.

“I don’t believe that I did, Barney.” She takes another bite and chews for a moment. “We spoke, yes, but it was about research he’s conducted in the past. Nothing that might have given him any real information on my current or previous states.”

“And yet there wasn’t any of the usual frustration.”

“Maybe he believes he saw something.”

Barney raises an eyebrow at her and crosses his arms over his chest. He considers her statement for a moment, nodding slowly as he thinks. It’s something he does when his mind is working hard to process everything being handed to it. There are days when he sits there for several long minutes, nodding and thinking, but today is not one of those days.

“Maybe he really did see something, Miss Clarice.”

The very thought has her stopping mid chew. What was the possibility that the man had managed to actually pick something up from her? Slim to none. But there was still that faint possibility. She knows she showed him very little, but very little is not nothing, and very little can be more than enough. Clarice herself has made her own findings and drawn her own conclusions on very little and been right. 

Slowly she continues chewing and swallows before replying, “If he saw anything it won’t be enough for him to form any opinions.” 

“You never know. Man might be better at reading faces and knowing what they mean than Chilton is.”

“Barney, everyone’s better at reading faces than Chilton is.” Taking another bite, she chews for a moment before pointing the spear of asparagus at Barney. “Then again everyone’s better at everything compared to Chilton.”

“Now, Miss Clarice,” Barney’s trying hard to fight back a smile. She knows by now that the man might try, but he’ll always fail to hide his amusement. “That’s not a nice thing to say about our esteemed director.”

A soft snort leaves her as she finishes off the piece of asparagus. Reaching for her roll again, her attention is briefly diverted to scooping up some mashed potatoes onto the piece of bread. She looks up at Barney again as he resumes speaking. “You spoke a lot with him today.”

One shoulder rises in a shrug as she takes a bite of her potato covered roll. Trust Barney to have noticed such a thing, she wonders if anything manages to escape the orderly’s attention for long. She sincerely doubts it. The man has a talent for sniffing out any piece of information he wishes to have, though he knows better than to use such a talent on her. A small part of their silent agreement.

“He was trying to be intelligent, it was amusing watching him struggle with his inadequacy.”

“You angered Doctor Chilton something awful, Miss Clarice. He’s got no more patience for your games.”

Her lips twist in a small smile, and she rolls both of her shoulders in a shrug this time. “I’ve long since stopped caring about what Chilton does or doesn’t care for. I have no patience for men who pretend to be something they’re not. And even less patience for idiots.”

Barney doesn’t say anything for a moments, simply watches her as she eats. She cuts through the the pork chop on her plate with care, she doesn’t want to break the plastic knife he’s given her. When she had first arrived in the sanitarium she had made that mistake more than a few times and each time she had been strapped to her bed while they had cleaned up the knife and searched through her cell for any other things she might be able to fashion into weapons. It was ridiculous really. At the time all she had had was a few books, a few loose pieces of paper and a crayon with which to write with. Every time Chilton had stared at her from the other side of her cell, his smile telling her exactly what he was thinking about.

She continues to focus on her food for a few moments until she hears Barney drawing in a breath. When she hears it, she slows her chewing so she can hear what he has to say. “There’s rumors that he’s going to be moved out of here soon.”

Barney’s news has her head snapping up so she can stare at him. Eyes wide with surprise, she stares at the man mind desperately working to figure out if he’s being honest with her. Chilton being transferred is something she hasn’t even begun to let herself dream about. The director is far too stupid to do anything else but occasionally poke at the souls locked behind the sanitarium’s doors. But this… 

Placing her fork and knife down on her plate, she rests her elbows on the top of her thighs. Clarice leans forward a little, her gaze direct and steady. She can’t help but wonder if Chilton made a pass at the wrong person and is being punished for it with a transfer. Her smile slowly turns into a smirk as she pictures Chilton’s hand wandering down the backside of some orderly, an orderly with ties to a senator. 

“Have you heard where to yet?”

“Not yet. It’s only a rumor, Miss Clarice. Nothing for certain yet.”

The fact that Barney doesn’t know where he’s being sent is of no concern to Clarice. Closing her eyes, she breaths in long and slow, letting the rush of almost violent joy sweep through her for several long moments. Freedom is close. Not the freedom she really wishes for, but a freedom she still craves. Exhaling raggedly, the ex-agent opens her eyes and allows herself the first real genuine smile she has ever given the man before her.

“And here I was hoping you could tell me just who I needed to thank for this.”

That makes the man raise an eyebrow at her. “Reckon you don’t have to thank anyone but Doctor Chilton himself. And I doubt you’d be wanting to do that.”

“Oh?” That has her curiosity peaking. Blue eyes leaving Barney’s face, Clarice reaches for her fork and knife again, and resumes cutting into the meat on her plate. Her movements a little less careful than before. “And what exactly did Doctor Chilton do to deserve this?”

“Wrote an article trying to prove that the only way to successfully treat schizophrenic inmates was to strap them to their beds during psychotic episodes. Problem is the man he used is related to money. Apparently they’ve been doing interviews with nurses and orderlies all day trying to figure out just what happened.”

Clarice slowly blinks at Barney, her mind working hard to process everything he’s told her. So Chilton’s finally hurt himself trying to move up in the world. Her chest swells with a sudden sense of relief, she pauses for a moment so she can imagine a competent person running the sanitarium. It’s almost too good to be true. Six years of waiting and hoping has finally paid off and it’s all she can do to keep herself from breaking out into relieved laughter. 

Lifting her plate from the floor, she heaves herself to her feet and walks over to the feeding tray. She puts her plate back in, keeping only the two cookies that the kitchen sent as her desert, and slams the tray back towards Barney’s side of the glass. 

“Please tell them that dinner was wonderful for me, Barney.”

“You don’t want more?” The man pushes himself off the chair with a low grunt of effort. In the years that she’s known him, Clarice has watched him put on a bit of a belly. If she didn’t know just how strong he was first hand she would have said he’d gone soft from sitting around watching inmates all day.

Smiling, she shakes her head and carefully places her cookies on the edge of her sink. With the news Barney’s just given her she doubts she could manage to keep her thoughts still long enough to focus on having another bite. “No, thank you. I think I’m going to spend the night reading as usual. Would you mind keeping the television on an appropriate channel?”

“You know I can’t do that.” 

Clarice sighs a little and lets her gaze fall from Barney to her stack of books. “It was worth a try. Thank you for your company, Barney. You’ve given me much to think about.”

“Miss Clarice, remember I said nothing’s certain yet.”

Waving a hand slightly impatiently, she bends over and lifts the top book from her pile. She studies what passes as a cover to her book for a moment, smiling a little to herself before turning back to the orderly. “I remember, Barney.”

The man simply nods at her. She can tell he’s uneasy with her sudden good mood. The tightness around his mouth and the way his eyes shift from her her eyes to her mouth speaks volumes. Giving him a small reassuring smile, she crosses her cell to climb onto her bed. 

It takes only a moment to make herself comfortable. There’s a dip in the middle of the mattress where it meets the wall from the days spent sitting in the same spot. Arranging the blankets in a slight nest around her and using the thin pillow as a book rest is as close to luxury as she’ll be able to ever get. If she closes her eyes, Clarice can almost imagine herself back in her dorm in Quantico, studying for a final. Focusing hard, she can almost hear the sounds of Mapp moving around their shared room, making comments about things they both needed to do. 

She misses that life. It had been one she’d tried desperately to fit into. 

But no, right now it’s not time to think about that. Right now it’s time to think about Chilton and how much easier her life is going to be the moment the man’s gone. Opening her eyes again, she smiles. Life is about to get more interesting.


	3. Chapter 3

The nightly sounds of the sanitarium echo down the brick and tile hall. It doesn’t matter what time of the night it is, there is always something to listen to. Always something to keep the edge of sleep back for just a few seconds more, no matter how many times she covers her ears with her hands. She misses the absolute silence of her tiny home. Misses the way she used to be able to control just how much light she allowed into her room. Misses her bed.

A loud sigh leaves her from beneath the pillow as she finally reaches the conclusion that she’s not going to sleep tonight. Arm snaking out from beneath the blanket, she wraps her fingers around the edge of her bed and pulls herself upwards. Both blanket and pillow fall from her as she sits up. Her hair, a mess from the restless turning she’d been doing most of the night, falls into her face and she grumpily pushes it away. It’s too long for her liking, they never cut it quite short enough for her. 

Her gaze lands on the television set just outside of her cell. The bright light drowns everything around in her harsh silver, making her eyes narrow in protest. Barney had been kind enough to turn down the volume and put on the subtitles when he noticed her starting to doze off at bedtime, and hadn’t bothered to turn it back on when some noise had woken her up almost immediately after. She makes a small mental note to thank him for the kindness. 

Sometimes it’s the simplest things done by the orderlies that make life still seem appealing. That and the amusement of watching the dwindling parade of psychiatrists come through trying to pick her brain. 

Humming softly, Clarice pulls herself from the bed and stumbles over to the sink attached to the far wall. Bending over to rest her hands against the rounded edges, she lets out a soft sigh. The smooth, white porcelain is cool beneath her warm palms and soothes a small part of her. It takes a long moment of staring at the short metal, faucet for her brain to remember how to turn it on. Her thoughts are dragging, taking their time forming and when they finally form something coherent she barely has the energy to acknowledge it. 

Fingers curling around the tap, she turns on the cold water. As the water gushes out in an unsteady stream, she sticks both hands under the water and cups them. A moment later her face is soaked in ice cold water, and little rivers fall down her cheeks and chin. It cools her skin to the point that she shivers. Straightening, she reaches for one of the towels placed next to the sink on a slight stone shelf built into her cell wall. Pressing the rough material to her face, she lets out another sigh.

Her mind is slowly starting to take in the shock of the cold water. Thoughts begin to speed up again as she takes deep breaths with the towel to her face. Within moments she feels comfortable enough to pull the towel from her face and set it on the edge of the sink. Turning slightly, she stares at her bed for a moment, considering if she wants to spend the rest of her night laying down like she should be doing, or pacing. 

In the end it’s easier to pace. To burn off some of the energy she can feel starting to build in her limbs. Even after six years of being locked in her tiny cell, she still has yet to find a way to burn off the extra energy. She misses her daily runs, the chance to be by herself for a short period of time and work her muscles until they burn. A small part of her believes that it was easier to control her urges to be violent that way. 

Legs sliding smoothly into motion, she begins pacing along her usual route, along side the glass that lines her cell. If she so wished she could curl up in the furthest corner with her head pressed against the glass and keep watch down the hallway. Instead she restricts herself to the occasional glance down the hallway as she paces in front of the glass. After all it’s not as if there are people lining up to see a disgraced FBI agent. That part of her life in the sanitarium is long over. 

Letting her mind drift as she paces, Clarice can almost remember what it feels like to walk somewhere free. Usually as she paces she recalls the woods that she used to play in as a child. The backyard of the house that she had grown up in had trees lining the far south side of the property, the beginnings of one of numerous forests around town. It had always been a place of freedom and happiness for Clarice while growing up. She and her sisters had spent several long summers exploring every inch of it they could until eventually they had felt more at home among the trees than they did in the family house.

If she concentrates she can almost remember what the woods smelled like after it had rained. The rich soil and moss mingling together. Bird song didn’t always happen as often as she remembered it, but it makes her memories slightly more pleasant. So it stays. And every so often she catches herself tilting her head and concentrating on the soft, unreal sound as if it were her whole world. 

It is at night that her memories most often threaten to overwhelm her. All come from a time that she has come to call “the before times”. Before a short man with shit coloured hair allowed anyone he pleased to parade before her. Before her world had been restricted to her tiny seventy-five square feet. Before her rage had finally become too much to control. Before too many things. 

Some nights she remembers the before times with a hint of longing. There had been so much she had wanted to do as a child and younger woman. So much she had planned on being for her family. But those ideas had disappeared the moment her father had been shot and killed. Or maybe she had been destined to snap either way. People had snapped for far less in the past and with far less rage than the woman possessed. Maybe it had just been what she was meant for. 

But that thought stings. 

To have gotten so far, and so close to everything she had wanted to be only for her to be broken - that had been their word, never hers. Before being able to truly work for her beloved Bureau… Yes it had happened to others, would continue to happen to others. But it had never been meant to happen to her. 

No, she decides with a shake of her head as she continues to pace. There was no such thing as destiny, and even if there was she had been meant for more than disgrace. She had made it all the way to the FBI, that meant she had been better than others before her. Or maybe it just meant the FBI were all broken like she was.

Her thoughts continue to chase each other for the rest of the night. A never ending circle that dies down some moments, only to be picked up again by a lingering thought. When Barney appears at the end of his shift to turn the volume on the television set back up, Clarice barely notices. She simply tucks away the information for use later before returning to her thoughts. Barney will understand. He always does. It’s one of the reasons she hasn’t fully pushed him away yet.

Her internal clock, although slightly off thanks to the lack of windows in her cell or the hallway, lets her know when it’s nearing time for breakfast. Not wanting the orderly that hands out breakfast to find her pacing only to report it to Chilton, she climbs back into her bed, legs folding smoothly underneath her. It’s far too easy to slip the usual mask of passiveness over her face, the slightly frayed edges managing to stay together for one more day. Soon she knows she’ll have to either fix them as best as she can or let herself dive into madness.

Perhaps madness would be the kinder option of the two to herself.

Or perhaps she is already mad. Her gaze flicks around her cell and prompts her to smile slightly to herself, lips curling just enough to hint at her amusement if anyone were to look too closely. It would make a certain kind of sense if her mind had snapped. Her only question was when. 

Eyes narrowing slightly in thought, her mind instantly gives her two plausible instances when her mind might have snapped. The first is the night she made her first kill. If you can truly call what she did killing. In her mind she still sees what she did as nothing more than keeping the population in check. The second possibility is the night Chilton first managed to get his grubby little hands on her. 

Dragged from her thoughts by the sounds of an approaching orderly, Clarice raises her gaze just in time to watch the morning orderly pushing the meal cart. The cart is ancient and covered in rust. And yet even it looks better than the man pushing it. Old before most of the sanitarium’s inmates were even stirrings in their parents’ loins, the man creaks more than the cart he pushes does. His face is covered in wrinkles and white whiskers, something that makes him look grandfatherly and warm. But she knows he was anything but.

The man has a hatred for most things that move, and absolutely loathes Clarice. For reasons she has never stopped to ask about. Sometimes a reason for hatred is not needed. Whatever reason that has made the man hate her is his own business. If he wants to find a way to get over it or beat the crap out of her he will. Or will at least try to if it came to a beating. Of that much she’s sure of. 

Gaze locked with the orderly’s, she slowly rises from her bed and crosses to the center of her cell. They watch each other as they begin their usual morning ritual. Clarice never turns her back to the man, more than certain he will take it as a sign of disrespect and aggression; both are things he will twist to suit his own needs and desires. He in return never moves too quickly for her. He might be able to make life a living hell for her in many different ways, but he respects the fact that she would kick and scream the entire time.

It doesn’t take long for her breakfast to get shoved through to her. The woman remains standing where she was in the middle of her cell, toes curled against the cold stone, until the man starts trudging down the corridor again. As always, she waits until the creaking of the cart disappears into the usual noises of the sanitarium before moving. Bare feet silent against the floor, she makes her way over to the tray in the wall waiting for her.

She’s only three steps away from the tray when she realizes that it’s empty. Lips baring themselves in frustration, she lifts the empty tray from the hole and stares at it in disgust. What a fucking asshole, she thinks to herself sullenly. It isn’t the first time the man has done such a thing, and Clarice doubts it will be the last. More often than not the orderlies take out their anger and frustrations on the inmates. 

It’s just the way things work in hell.

A wave of anger rushes through her, snapping her limbs into action. Before she has time to rein herself in, she has thrown the tray at the Plexiglas separating her from the world. The metal hits the glass with a reassuring clatter, and Clarice almost expects the world to shatter around her. For a moment she freezes. Blood pounding in her ears, she struggles to listen for the sound of approaching feet. She waits several seconds.

Hearing nothing she allows herself to exhale roughly. As fast as the anger had arrived it leaves her. The slight hollowness beneath her breastbone has her scowling at the faint reflection of herself in the Plexiglas. So what if she had lost control of herself for a moment? It had felt good. And it isn’t like it was something she did often. 

Disappointed with herself, she turns away from her view of the hallway outside of her cell and stares moodily at her tiny world. She’s still standing in the same spot, staring at the far wall, feet pressed firmly to the cold stone floor of her cell, several hours later when Hannibal Lecter once more walks down the hallway.

She’s alerted to the man’s reappearance with the slight muffled steps of his leather loafers. A soft sigh leaves the man, the sigh drags at his teeth and creates a slight whistle in the air. Lips curling slightly, her spirits lift ever so slightly now that she has the chance to speak with the man once more. She’ll be able to apologize for her rude behaviour and potentially have a proper conversation with the man. 

Turning, she lets her gaze skim over the man, quickly taking in what she could. Today the man wears the same shoes that he had the last they had spoken, though they have been freshly polished, judging from the faint whiff of polish she gets. His pants have been carefully pressed and ironed, along with his nice shirt. His hair is neatly trimmed, and his jaw smooth shaven. Nothing is out of place on the man. Obvious time and care have gone into his appearance, and that’s something she easily finds herself respecting about the man. 

“Doctor Lecter,” she greets him before he has chance to draw breath. Hands resting at her sides, she runs her fingers along the outside seams of her pants. A habit she had picked up during her first few years in the sanitarium. “I didn’t think we’d be meeting again.”

The man offers her a small smile and lifts his chin a little as she greets him. Today he does not have his briefcase, and the hand that had previously been carrying it seems slightly nervous without something to do. Or maybe she’s simply reading too much into the fact that he’s stuffed it into his pocket. 

“Agent Starling, a pleasure again.” His voice rasps ever so slightly, and Clarice is surprised to find a pleasing note to it that she hadn’t heard previously. 

Gesturing towards the folded chair sitting against the wall behind the man, she smiles. “Please, pull up the chair.” Her head tilts to the side, her gaze watching the man pull his hand from his pocket and reach for the back of the chair. She resumes speaking as the man’s beginning to sit. 

“I would like to apologize for my behaviour the last we spoke. It was rude of me to dismiss you so.” Doctor Lecter doesn’t need to know that she truly doesn’t feel overly remorseful, but if it means a decent conversation for a few minutes she’ll pretend briefly. Lips curling in a slight, what she hopes looks apologetic smile, she adds on one last bit to see if he’ll take the bite. “I’m afraid my mood has been rather unstable recently.”

One of the man’s eyebrows rises slightly, and for a moment she expects him to take the bait she had thrown him. But he passes over it without so much as a blink. “Please, Agent Starling, your apology is accepted, but really it was quite understandable. Think nothing of it.”

Having expected a slightly different answer, Clarice pauses for a moment. Eventually she nods her head slightly accepting his words. As the man makes himself comfortable on the chair, the woman watches him glance around her cell. Trying to pull pieces of information about her from the cell. He’ll have a hard time finding more than a few things out. She keeps her cell tidy and organized, everything has its place. Anything that could eventually betray a stray thought to the world safely tucked away.

Their gazes meet again, and the ex-agent finds herself sucking in air suddenly. For a moment she feels as if the man can see right through her, her thoughts laid out before him, exposed and revealing every little secret she has to him. It’s a strange feeling, makes her feel like she’s staring into the eyes of a snarling cougar armed with only a stick to turn it aside. 

She does not like feeling like prey.

Inhaling roughly, she squares her shoulders and hardens her gaze. It was simply the way the light caught his eyes, she tells herself silently. For a moment the man’s maroon eyes had appeared to be a brighter shade. One achingly close to the colour of freshly spilt blood. In the back of her mind she can recall the familiar metallic taste, the liquid warmth against her skin, the taste hot and heavy on her tongue-

“Agent Starling, I was curious if you would share with me what book you were reading as I left the other evening.” 

Humming softly, the woman glances at her pile of books considering the pros and cons of showing off her delicate treasures. After a quick glance back at the man, she comes to the conclusion that while there may be harm in letting him know about her books, there is nothing wrong with speaking with him about them. 

“I was reading the first part of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings Trilogy.” 

“Are you a fan of fantasy novels, Agent Starling?”

Head slowly moving from side to side, she moves to sit in front of the man. She’s not entirely fond of the position, as she has to tilt her head upwards to look at him properly. Over the years Clarice has found that it’s often better to have the higher ground in everything, though for her short frame that was often difficult. 

“Not entirely. But they’re some of the few books Doctor Chilton will allow me to have.” Resting her hands in her lap, she lets her smile grow ever so slightly. “I prefer horror novels more often than not.”

“I must admit, I often don’t find the purpose to a horror novel.” He says it matter of factually, knowing that it clashes with something that she enjoys and appreciates. Either she will accept it or not. The woman finds herself pleasantly surprised by it. “I find the tension cheap and more often than not forced.”

A soft snort leaves Clarice, making her shoulders rise slightly and her head turn to the side. “Isn’t that the point of a horror novel? The fabricated suspense and poor story lines?”

“Perhaps, but I do enjoy my stories with a bit more depth to them.”

“Would you prefer Shakespeare than, Doctor?”

She’s speaking to him more than she previously had been. The man considers that a large step forward in learning more about her. Getting into his car this morning he had never expected the woman to be this talkative with him. True, the topic is only about books. But the kind of books a person is interested in reveals significant character traits. 

Take his taste in books for example. Hannibal is more than aware that his love for the classics, poetry, and histories have many people insulting him behind his back. But the man finds caring is too far beneath him. Let the world say what it will, he is content and that is what matters.

Crossing one leg over the other, revealing a bit more of his black sock to her, he leans back in his chair. There are several answers he could give to that, but in the end he settles simply for the truth. “Dante, actually. I prefer his writing style to Shakespeare’s.” 

He can tell that his answer has taken the woman by mild surprise. Her eyes blink once as she processes this information. The doctor finds himself smiling, amused that he has managed to catch her off guard. It’s something that often happens with people, but the woman had seemed so confident in herself that it feels satisfying to defy her expectations. 

If only she knew how similar they really were.

“And why do you prefer Dante over Shakespeare?” The question is being used to give herself time to recover. Hannibal can still see the slight tenseness around the corner of her eye’s and mouth. Nonetheless he has to answer. Not doing so would be rude, though perhaps the woman deserves it for all the slights she has committed. 

“I prefer the history to many of Dante’s works, especially the art that goes with it that illustrates the wonderful story. After Dante’s work was distributed the Church experienced an influx in their numbers due to the sudden fear in the masses.” Clarice’s eyes remained fixed on him as she speaks, listening intently to what he’s saying. “Many of his ideas were adopted by the Church and his version of Hell remains one of the most widely believed in to this day.”

He watches the woman shake her head. Red hair moving along her shoulders, he wonders for a moment how she kept it during her nights out among the worst humanity had to offer. Did she wear her hair up, to reveal her wonderfully curved white neck? Did she leave her hair down, using it to flirt with her next kill? Or did she have it pulled back as she did now, with only her bangs pulled away from her face?

The question wanders through his mind for a moment. It must be incredibly different when they each take care of their prizes. Would she be methodical about the way she took someone down, or would she give in to her passion? Chin tilting downwards ever so slightly, he studies the ex-agent for a moment. No. She had given into her passion, that’s why she had been caught.

Oh, if only she hadn’t. She’s full of promise, this ex-FBI agent. A shame she’s been locked away in this place. Very few deserved such a thing, least of all someone who at one point believed she was good. He wonders for a moment, about the possibility of her regretting what she did or regretting that she felt she needed to take such actions. Perhaps she merely felt she was keeping her promise to protect people. 

Only time will tell. But it’s currently time he has. 

“I must confess I’ve never read it.” There’s a slight catch in Clarice’s voice, that has the man pausing. Is it longing or is it apologetic? It’s gone too quickly to truly tell. Judging from the pile of well worn books it must be longing.

“It’s worth the read, even for someone next quite as interested in history as myself.”

“In Italian or English?”

“Everything is best read in the language that it was written. So much of a poem is lost when you try to translate it. The words, although still pleasing, lose the beauty and flow that made it worth reading in the first place.”

Hannibal pauses for a moment, looking the woman over. “I’m guessing you ask because you’re unfamiliar with the Italian language.”

“Sadly I am,” the woman replies, though to Hannibal she doesn’t sound all that sorry. “I only speak small amounts of Spanish and French.”

That has his curiosity rising. He remembered reading very little about her history in her file, just enough to know that she was raised by nuns during her preteen and teenage years. Still he hadn’t expected her to speak anything more than English, it’s a pleasant surprise. He hopes it to be one of many. 

Brushing a piece of dust from his pant leg, he tilts his head to the side to study the woman for a moment. She doesn’t look all that dangerous to him, though he knows better than to assume such things. After all, his own looks reveal nothing of the monster buried deep within him. But he has had considerably more practice than she has at such things. Perhaps the best monsters were those that hid in the least likely of places.

“May I ask why French and Spanish?”

“Spanish was the only language taught at my high school, and upon entering university I decided to take conversational French.” Her blue eyes blink slowly, and for a moment he wonders what she’s thinking. “I studied both into my second year of university and became proficient enough to not get lost should I travel.”

“And where is it you would like to travel to Agent Starling?”

A roll of her shoulders beneath the hideous grey of her prison uniform. Hannibal is more than aware that prisoners should have no real comforts, the punishment for being caught as he sees it. But the material of her clothing looks like it scratches at her skin and makes things unnecessarily uncomfortable. Perhaps a simple comment to one of the orderlies or even a member of the board of director would enable it to be changed. Perhaps having that small favour hanging over her while make her more open to speaking with him.

“Might I tell you about Florence?” His voice is quiet as he asks, hoping that she’ll open up more at the chance to have more than the cell crushing in around her if only for a brief moment. 

Her eyes narrow ever so slightly, weary of his offer. The gesture amuses him, and he does not take any offense. At least not for the moment. She is right to be cautious, caution is what keeps the individual alive. Pity it took her this long to learn the lesson. 

Without waiting for her to answer him, he continues. Let her figure out how she feels about it as he’s speaking. “In the morning, the sun washes over the roofs, turning them a bright red. Everything gleams white and cream in the sunshine. Down by the water, it’s peaceful, though one must search hard to find a place to themselves. The soft lapping of the water paired with the early smells of the bakery and fresh tea is like heaven.”

Her eyes have closed as she listens to him, her lips parted ever so slightly. From where he sits Hannibal can’t hear her heartbeat, but he’s certain it’s hammering against her ribcage. Smiling slightly, he runs a thumb along his pant leg taking care of a piece of dust. So Agent Starling is starved for a view. The doctor is more than able to use that to his advantage, the only question will be in what ways. 

As the woman’s eyes slowly slide open again, Hannibal comes to the conclusion that he’ll figure it out eventually. He has all the time in the world that he needs. Leaning back in his chair, he watches the woman’s face struggle to remain smooth and frustration free. 

It’s far too easy to catch the brief flashes of emotion once you know what to look for. One of the few ways having a degree in psychology has helped him over the years. Perhaps there truly was a reason for leaving his career as a general surgeon. 

“I’ve always wanted to visit Europe,” Clarice’s voice comes out as a quiet rasp. Blinking in surprise, Hannibal watches the woman pull her knees up to her chest and wrap her arms around herself. It’s a defensive position, and she’s in it because she’s revealing a part of herself. The doctor leans forward a little, not having entirely expected such a breakthrough so early on. 

“The history, it’s breathtaking. So much happened to propel the human race forward, and yet it’s all barely a ripple in time.”

“Does that bother you, Agent Starling?”

Her head slowly moves from side to side. It has a curious effect on the colouring of her hair beneath the lights. Makes it appear more copper. He finds himself wondering if it might be as soft as he imagines it to be. 

“No. I don’t believe that it does.” Her voice gains a slight note of strength as she answers him, and he smiles slowly. “I’ve always known that I would have little impact on history, I was always more concerned about the people of the present and making their lives easier.”

So she believes herself to be a white knight. Perhaps more prying would lead to the discovery of the true reason for her breakdown. It would have to come slowly though if he wants her to answer him without completely shutting down. A few weeks, if he’s lucky. Never, if he’s not.

“And history?”

“What about it?” She raises an eyebrow as she answers his question with one of her own.

“What are your thoughts?”

“History is nothing more than stories that we’re supposed to teach ourselves on the bases that they hold some sort of important lesson.” Her chin rests on one of her knees, and she fixes her gaze on his. “History is a story of fabrications that have been written by those who had power and influence, nothing more.”

Hannibal hums softly and uncrosses his legs only to cross them again, this time his left resting over his right. “So you believe there is nothing to be learned from history?”

“I didn’t say that, Doctor Lecter.” Clarice smiles slightly, the corners of her mouth twitching ever so slightly. “There’s always a lesson to be learned. The only question is which lesson will you take away from it.”

“And what lessons has history taught you, Agent Starling?”

“I’ll tell you mine, if you tell me yours.”

Her words surprise him enough that he chuckles. Not something just anyone can drag from him. If he’s not careful he might actually come to want more than their current conversations. 

“I have learned, Agent Starling, that mankind is often tricked into following through on the most sinister of actions by being told they are working for the greater good.”

His answer has caught her off guard. He can tell from the way her chest expands as she inhales suddenly. The sound of air rushing into her lungs doesn’t quite reach him, but he can imagine it. It’s a sound the doctor has become well acquainted with over the years. 

“And yourself?”

She’s taking the time to consider her answer now. Gaze sliding to the left, he wishes not for the first time, and he doubts it’ll be the last, to know what exactly is going through her mind. Several moments of silence slip by them, during which the sounds of the sanitarium try to force their way back into their worlds. Thankfully neither of them let them.

“I have learned, Doctor, something quite similar.” Clarice’s gaze finally comes to land back on him, and he watches her nostrils flare slightly as she inhales through her nose. “Sometimes those who wish to do good do the most harm.”

There is a slight hint of her own past, and the lessons that the ex-agent has learned clouding her answer. Not that Hannibal minds. She has every right to lament the actions she took that lead her to where she is now. But he wonders exactly what it is she regrets most. If he’s lucky maybe he’ll be able to get the answer to that question during their time together. It would certainly be a good piece of information to give Crawford. 

“If you had the chance, where in Europe would you visit first?” 

“Somewhere with trees. And snow,” she’s quick to add. Her face lights up as she talks about it. Grip on her knees loosening, she feels herself release a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The previous conversation had skirted too close to her own past for her to feel comfortable. This small talk is thankfully something she can handle.

“And maybe mountains.”

“If that’s the case I would recommend the Scandinavian mountain range.”

If she were to close her eyes again, Clarice is certain she could see the mountains stretching before her. Once her daddy had brought her to see mountains. A camping trip in the middle of West Virginia that had ended with their tent being flooded in the middle of the night, but she had loved every moment of it. The memory, although it hurts, is one of few moments that she had with her father and she continues to treasure it to this day. 

“And the snow?”

“Crisp and clean. And so white. You’ve never seen so much white in all your life.”

Nodding slowly, Clarice allows her eyes to momentarily begin drifting shut. It sounds like the kind of place her father would have loved to see. If only they had had the chance to see it together. There is no doubt in her mind that things would have been completely different if they had. 

But no, that’s too painful a thought process for her current company. She must be strong.

“Your favourite place to visit, Doctor?”

“Italy.” His answer comes easily, and with a smile that reveals his tiny, perfectly white teeth. “It has a little bit of everything for everyone. History. Architecture. People. Food. Wine. There is much to love about the country.”

A soft chuckle has her shoulders moving slightly. She should have expected such an answer after his slight lecture on the importance of Dante, and how he spoke about Florence. More than a small part of her is jealous of the man for having the freedom to travel as freely as he does, and so extensively. The furthest she’d ever been from Virginia was Denver, and that hadn’t been for lack of trying.

“What if I was to ask you for an answer other than Italy?”

“Than I’m afraid you’d have to settle for being disappointed.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, mostly in curiosity. “Not even France?”

“Don’t get me wrong, Agent Starling, I do love France. It’s history and wine are almost as marvelous as Italy’s, not to mention the wonderful artwork.”

“But there’s something you’re not saying.”

Hannibal inclines his head ever so slightly at her comment. She finds herself actually curious as to what the man would say next, something she hasn’t experienced in far too long. 

“You’re correct of course. Unfortunately for me, the people of France have turned me away from visiting more often than not.”

“Might I inquire as to why that’s so?”

The psychiatrist raises a shoulder in a slight shrug at her question. It’s fascinating for her to watch the carefully ironed suit jacket and dark red button down shirt move over his body. Each has obviously been carefully tailored for him, they fit too well for it to be otherwise. She can’t help but wonder if her family would have managed to stay together if they had had such luck when it came to money. 

“The people can be rude. I’ve never been a fan of being slighted, the French have made it an art-form over the years.”

“Understandable.”

His eyes flash for a moment, and Clarice wonders what he’s thinking. Perhaps he’s remembering the incident from before when she herself was rude to him. Despite her earlier false apology she is beginning to feel a slight amount of remorse. An unfamiliar emotion. One that reminds her that at one point she may have been closer to human than she truly realized.

“Doctor Lecter?” She waits for the soft hum of acknowledgement before continuing, “May I ask why you accepted this job from Crawford? Surely a man of your expertise has better things to be doing than attempting to create profiles on disgraced FBI agents.”

“I’m came because of my curiosity.” 

“Curiosity killed the cat, Doctor Lecter. Poke too closely and you might find something you don't wish to.”

“It’s a price I am currently willing to take.” 

Clarice finds herself shaking her head ever so slightly at the man. Mostly bemused at why he would so willingly give up his time to speak with her. He must be more than aware that she doesn’t mean to give him anything willingly. So why bother? 

“And if you don’t find what you’re looking for?”

“Then I’ll have at least gained some decent conversations during our time together.”

More silence. However, this time it’s not Clarice that breaks it, but the man. He says her name. Once. Softly. Knowing full well that he will get her attention with it. 

“Curiosity may have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.” His smile widens once more, and for a moment Clarice is convinced that she’s staring down into the maw of a hungry wolf. “And I, dear Agent Starling, am more than willing to have my theories proven or disproved. All that matters is how open you’re willing to be with me.”

“And if I don’t want to be open with you?”

“Then we shall simply have our conversations.”

Her eyes narrow as she considers this. She doubts the man is being entirely honest, but instead of being weary like she had thought she would be after hearing him answer her question, Clarice finds herself intrigued. Though what she's about to ask next of him has herself hesitating slightly. After everything he's just said, she shouldn't be putting herself into his debt, but for a book? She thinks she can handle a question or two in exchange for a book.

“Might I make a request?” Hannibal’s head nods once, and she hurries through the next part, not wanting to lose her courage.“Next time you visit, would you please bring me a new book?”

“It would be my pleasure.”


	4. Chapter 4

Her heart nearly stops in her chest. Inhaling uncertainly, she stares at the soft, leather bound book being held in the man’s long fingers. If she was paying attention, she was likely to have noticed the smile on the man’s face and the way his eyes drank in her cautious hope. It has been months since Chilton has last allowed her to have a new book, and now here is Hannibal Lecter offering her one. 

Eyes narrowing slightly, Clarice has to force herself not to get down on her knees and beg for the book. She wonders what he might have brought her. A novel, perchance? No, that doesn’t seem like something the man would do. It’s likely a classic. From the way he spoke about Dante last time they conversed it’s likely _Inferno_. She finds herself oddly intrigued at the idea of reading the man’s favourite piece of literature. If she’s lucky it might provide some clues about the man’s character. 

Dragging her gaze away from the book, she finally looks the doctor in the eyes. His dark eyes stare at her from underneath neatly trimmed eyebrows. Staring back at the man, Clarice raises her shoulders and forces herself not to shrink away. There is something in Doctor Lecter’s gaze that continues to strike her as predatory, and it unnerves her. No human she’s ever met has had that look to them, not even Buffalo Bill. 

Despite her precautions, there is no instinct to run and hide. For a moment she wonders how the two of them must look, standing on either side of the glass watching at each other. If Barney were to come walking down the hallway would he see two predators staring at each other? Or would he see something else entirely? Her teeth grind slightly in frustration as her mind refuses to imagine it. It’s far too focused on the leather book held tauntingly close to her cell wall. 

Swallowing, Clarice allows herself to be the one to move first. Perhaps if she is the first to break into movement he will give her the book sooner and with less fuss. Head tilting to the side, Clarice lets her gaze wander away from the man to the book and then back again. His smile has grown, revealing his two rows of tiny, perfect teeth. It’s unnatural how white and perfect they are, but she doesn’t allow herself to be distracted by the thought. 

Clarice raises an eyebrow, deciding to play off her early reaction to the book as nothing. “What do you have there, Doctor Lecter?” She asks as she moves to sit in front of the chair Barney has once again set up for the psychiatrist. Her lips curl in the slightest hint of a smirk. “Your journal? Have you come to share your deepest, darkest secrets? No one better to share it with. Not like anyone would believe someone like myself, even if they felt inclined to make the long journey down to my little corner of hell.”

A low chuckle rumbles in the man’s chest, and he shakes his head at the woman slightly. She watches as he sinks into the chair, the familiar sound of metal grating against metal disturbs neither one of them, both having expected it. A quiet noise of disappointment leaves the woman’s lips as she watches the man tuck the book back into his bag.

“Unfortunately, Agent Starling,” he says her name and once title with the smallest of smiles. “It is not further insight into my life; however, I am interested in learning more about yours. If you would be so kind.”

Clarice feels herself bristling ever so slightly at the idea of sharing parts of herself with the man before her. True, he is not like the previous doctors who have come to speak with her, but that doesn’t mean anything to her currently. 

The man must see the sudden tenseness in the lines of her shoulders and the way her gaze must sharpen upon him, for his smile softens. “Only a question or two, this time.”

Her chin rises and she slowly blinks at him, surprised by the slight compassion he’s showing her. It has her hesitating, unsure of how to proceed. Kindness is not something she is used to anymore, and she’s out of practice with handling it. She continues to stand there, hesitating far longer than she wants to. 

His maroon eyes search hers for a moment, before he gestures rather impatiently to the pocket of the bag where he had only moments before hidden the leather bound book. “I won’t bother to tell you what it is, no doubt you have already figured it out. It’s yours, Agent Starling, but only if you answer my questions.”

“And if I don’t wish to answer your questions, Doctor?”

Lecter lifts one shoulder in a slight shrug, completely unfazed by her hints at possible rebellion. And why should he be? It’s not the man sitting behind a wall of glass. He has a freedom that she will never again have. The thought makes her want to grind her teeth in frustration, but she knows better to take it out on the man. 

“Then we can skip it and I can another of my many questions.” It’s not the answer she expected, and again she finds herself stumbling. Biting the inside of her bottom lip, she slowly sinks to the ground and crosses her legs. Clarice rests her elbows on the tops of her legs, getting herself comfortable. Staring at the man through half-narrowed eyes, she considers him. Her fingers run along the seam of her pants, as she slowly exhales through her nose. 

“Fine, Doctor. Ask your questions.”

If he can hear the slight note of fear to her voice he doesn’t show it. For which she is relatively grateful for. Not that the man needs to know that. It’s starting to frustrate her how easily the man before her takes everything she throws at him. There must still be some way to trip him up and get to him the same way he gets to her.

“The thing you miss most about being outside?”

Clarice had been expecting a question along those lines, and as such barely blinks when she hears it. Taking a deep breath, she lets her fingers trace gentle patterns into the tops of her thighs as she thinks. There’s quite a bit about the outside world that she misses. The people she had considered friends, the places she had loved to visit, the food and drinks she had once enjoyed with a freedom she hadn’t known would soon be ending. 

Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath before quietly responding, “I miss the woods that bordered my parent’s backyard.”

“What about them do you miss?”

“I-” Clarice breaks off before she has even truly begun, and slowly opens her eyes. She had not expected herself to really give the man her honest answer, and now that she has she finds herself wilting slightly beneath his gaze. It's not like it was a very original answer, and her reasoning for it even less so.

“If I'm being honest, Doctor Lecter, the reason I miss my woods is because I miss the feeling of safety they provided me. I knew those woods better than I knew myself. They were always there when they world got hard, and provided a shield from the problems people seemed to create.”

Her forthrightness has taken the man by surprise. Clarice can see it in the way his eyes widen and his fingers dig into the tops of his thighs. She has even surprised herself with her honesty, but as her eyes fall to the bag sitting next to him containing the much wanted book, she comes to the conclusion that naked honesty in this one moment will not hurt her. Not when she has so much to gain from it.

Bringing her gaze back to the man’s face, she raises an eyebrow at him. So far he has remained in silence, turning her answer over in his mind. Clarice is curious to know how he’ll handle her response. Will he push her for more, or will he simply let the answer be what it is, honest and straight to the point. Believing him to need a moment to figure out what his next question will be, she begins to stretch her legs out in front of her, the feeling of restlessness beginning to grow. Unfortunately the doctor had arrived only a few minutes before she began her daily exercises. Not that it changes much in the grand scheme of things, there will always be time for what little activities she is permitted.

Her eyes begin to slide shut as she stretches her stiffening muscles, but she is taken by surprise when Hannibal speaks almost instantly. “In your woods, Agent Starling, did you ever find a pile of rocks or a fallen tree?”

Clarice opens her eyes and tilts her head slightly to the side, considering the man’s question for a moment. She had found plenty of both in her forest, though she was hesitant to admit to it. The way the man had fired off the question made her wonder if he was digging for something more than what she had given him. Taking a deep breath, Clarice nods once and gives the man nothing more.

She watches as he smiles slowly. The smile sending a small shiver down her back. There is no real reason for her to be afraid of the man, at least that’s what she tries to tell herself. And yet there are moments when she’s almost certain the man is going to come through the glass and pry open her head to peer inside her skull to watch and study her thoughts. 

“Did you find several, Agent Starling?” Another nod, and the man’s smile grows even more. His tiny white teeth flash in the light of the hallway, and for a moment Clarice wonders how much effort he puts into keeping them perfect.

“But you say nothing, which leads me to believe that you had a favourite one to go to. A fallen tree, with several sticks laying against the side to protect you from the worst the elements have to offer on nights when you chose to sleep outside? But, no, that’s not quite your style is it, Agent Starling?”

The man’s head tilts to the side, taking in her shaking breaths and the way her fingertips now dig into the tops of her thighs. He is enjoying her uneasiness; she can see it in the slight shine in his eyes; can hear it in the slightest hint of glee hidden in his voice as he speaks. For that reason she is tempted to push herself to her feet and rage at him. But another glance to the bag at his feet has the words dying in her throat. As much as she might wish to regain control from him she finds herself unable to let go of the promise of a new book. 

As Hannibal begins speaking again, she allows her eyes to close. Hoping that if she doesn’t have to watch him speak it’ll be easier to swallow his words. But the more he has to say to her the more she finds herself struggling to keep her teeth and claws to herself. She has made men far stronger than this man tremble and gasp, their tears streaming down their cheeks in messy rivers as they beg her for mercy. 

“But no, dear Agent Starling, I do not believe that is your style. No. You found a large pile of rocks, a mountain in your young mind, that you could climb to the top of. Perhaps in a large clearing? And it took many tries to reach the top, but you wanted to and so you continued to try. What did you see when you got to the top of your little mountain, Agent Starling? 

“Did you see the world laid out before you as simple as you thought it was? Or did you see that there were many more things for you to learn? Did you tremble in fear? Knowing how small and insignificant you were? Did you run home to your Mommy and Daddy and cry over the sheer vastness of it all?”

“I had no father to run to.” Clarice is pleasantly surprised by how strong her voice is. Lifting her chin, she opens her eyes and fixes the man with a hard stare. She has always hated thinking about her father, let alone speaking about him to others. But she finds the need to prove to the doctor that she is more than he thinks stronger than her hesitancy to speak about her father. 

“By the time I had found my mountain,” she hisses the word at him, “as you call it doctor, my father had been dead for three weeks. And my mother didn’t have time to spare coddling me.” Her eyes are beginning to sting slightly as her thoughts linger on her mother, the first time she has done so in close to a decade. Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she has to struggle with the urge to look away from the doctor. But looking away from him feels too much like defeat. She must be stronger than him, or at the very least stronger than he believes her to be.

“You see a lot, Doctor. But your guessing game fails you in several ways. I loved my mountain, and it took me only a single try to make it to the top. And from there I could see my forest, and I believed myself to be more free than in that one moment than I had in a lifetime helping my mother and father. I did not cry, Doctor Lecter, it was terrifying, but also exhilarating. I stood on my mountain and I enjoyed the feeling of being free.”

Pulling her legs back, she clenches her jaw and has to fight back the seemingly never ending stream of words. She’s said too much. Shown the man more than she has shown anyone in what she thinks must be her entire life. Her hard stare deepens into a scowl, one that she knows has sent better men than Hannibal Lecter running for cover. But the man gives no sign that he has seen the change in her expression, does not even shift in his chair to betray any uneasiness. 

She does not expect him to say anything in response to her, and she once again finds herself surprised by the man. “I am sorry, Agent Starling, too often I forget that not all mortals are made the same. Many of my patients require that little push that you just witnessed to break down, to finally face the truth about the things they have experienced, but you it seems do not.”

“I’ve had plenty of time to think, Doctor. I’ve accepted all the truths I possibly can in this cell.”

Hannibal nods once, and in that movement Clarice understands that they have moved beyond the topic of her woods. She allows herself a quiet breath of relief, grateful that the psychiatrist had not tried to probe deeper and ruin what few good memories she has left. 

“What was your father like, Agent Starling?”

“He was a hardworking man, Doctor Lecter.” An honest answer, though she doubts it was the one he was looking for. If he pushes, she knows he’ll get the answer he wants, all because of the book he’s hidden away. For a moment Clarice hates herself for being so open over nothing more than a few pieces of paper held together by glue. But she can’t help herself. After years of holding the same worn books in her hands she wants something more.

Granted she wants more than what she has in many different ways.

“What did he do, Agent Starling?”

“He was a town marshal.”

Hannibal waits in silence for her to say more, but she refuses to give him the satisfaction. Clarice has already given him far too much today. Anything else the man gets from her will have to be fought for and now that she has seen how harsh he can be she is ready for him. Not quite allowing herself a smirk, the woman shifts slightly against the ground and waits for him to break the silence. There’s a curiosity in the man now that he has heard her speak, and though he does not show it, Clarice knows it’s there. After all if their roles had been reversed she would likely be in the same position.

“And your mother, Agent Starling, what did she do for a living?”

Satisfied that she was right, Clarice runs her hands along the tops of her thighs and lets her gaze finally wander away from the man. “She cleaned hotel rooms for a living. She was always at work when my siblings and I got home from school. They both were.”

She allows herself to reveal a little more with this answer, a silent nod to the victory he has given her. Whether or not he realizes it Clarice doesn’t care. If Hannibal Lecter is not smart enough to see this exchange the way she does then their sessions will likely come to a very quick end. 

And then once again Clarice will have her loneliness. 

Grinding her teeth, the woman quickly shoves the thought from her mind. Yes, she had been lonely before Hannibal Lecter had arrived to pick her mind, but that changes nothing. She refuses to give in to him, refuses to let him see pieces of her that she has tried to bury and leave behind.

The comment about siblings has the man considering her carefully, and she sucks in a breath to prepare herself for the question she believes is coming. When it never comes she almost cuts the man off to ask him why he doesn’t inquire about her siblings. Almost, but not quite. Her years of dealing with Chilton have taught her how to hold her tongue better than she used to.

“Did you ever accompany your mother to her cleaning job?”

“Many times. Until my siblings were born it was easier for her to keep on eye on me.” Resting her elbows on her legs and leaning forward a little, she plays with a loose string in her prison jumper, an ugly white thing that scratches at her skin. “She had me do all the easy things, mostly laying things out like soap bars and fresh towels.”

Hannibal nods slowly, as if this is all information he already knows and Clarice telling him is just confirming things for him. It sets the woman’s teeth on edge. Not even Mapp, the one person she had called friend throughout her stay at the Academy and her roommate in the months after knew this much about her family. It had been agreed from an early point that the Starling family was never to be mentioned, never to be asked after. Life was just easier that way for both of them, though Clarice knew her friend often wondered about what had happened to push her so far from what little family she had.

“And what does your mother do now, Agent Starling?” Hannibal’s gaze is serious and steady as he asks the question, and for a moment Clarice thinks he already knows what she’s going to say to him. It’s likely he does.

Raising one shoulder in a shrug, the woman lets her gaze slide away from the psychiatrist to focus on a spot on the wall behind him. “I’m not sure, Doctor Lecter. It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken to her.”

“Since the death of your father.”

Anger and frustration rush through the woman staining the world a dark, temporary red. Thinking about the way her mother had leaped onto another man after her father died always made her want to scream, always made her wonder just what it was her father had seen in his wife. Clarice manages to bite back the scathing reply, but only just. Swallowing hard, she digs her nails into the heels of her palms and forces herself to take a deep breath.

In for seven. 

Out for eleven.

Doing her best to push her rage aside, she focuses for several long minutes on just breathing slowly. She forces her eyes to close as she counts, not wanting to see the doctor’s face and the look of victory that’s undoubtedly there. It will only send her over the edge that she hadn’t even realized was there. Something the man has obviously been trying to push her towards, she hates herself for letting him. 

When she finally has control over herself, she opens her eyes again. Hannibal’s watching her closely, head tilted to the side as he files away everything for later use. Taking a deep breath, she makes her fingers relax and uncurls her fists to flex her fingers. There are slight traces of blood beneath her nails, and she makes a small note to clean them once the doctor leaves her in peace once more. 

“May we please talk about something else, doctor,” the question comes out as barely more than a whisper, making Clarice drop her gaze to the floor between them. She hates being so weak, but remembering the way her mother had failed her hurts more than she wants to admit. 

The ex-agent doesn’t expect the man to comply with her wish, she knows better than to expect too much from someone studying her. It’s not like she’s in a position to do much if they ever refused to listen to her. The worst she can do is ignore them, and even then more often than not they refuse to leave her in peace. 

“I often find Tolkien a very slow read, even for one such as myself, who’s accustomed to long windedness. However, I very much find myself enjoying the details of his stories. His world is certainly a beautiful one.”

Clarice can feel the sob of relief building in her chest as she listens to the man speak about her book. Scrambling to come up with a response for the man, she nods hard a few times, her hair bobbing slightly with the movement. Quick to brush away some loose hair that has fallen into her face because of it, she offers the man a tight smile of thanks before responding, “There is certainly no shortage of beauty in his writing. But I find myself enjoying how he portrays his characters more than anything else.”

She watches the doctor’s eyes narrow in thought, as if trying to remember how the author had written his characters for a frame of reference. Eventually, Hannibal begins nodding accepting what she’s said. “He did write each character fairly well. But I’m intrigued, Agent Starling. What exactly did you find so enjoyable about his characters?”

Lifting a shoulder in a shrug, Clarice runs her palms along the sides of her legs. She knows that it’s likely going to leave small trails of blood along her clothing, but she doesn’t care. She simply needs to make the slight buildup of anxious sweat go away. “I like that they’re all believable. Even the elves. They all have some good and some bad in them. They’re real and less perfect than they likely believe themselves to be.”

“You enjoy their humanity,” Hannibal said simply, his lips curling in the beginnings of a smile. “Quite an interesting thing to hear from someone who’s murdered several men.”

Clarice finds herself meeting the doctor’s gaze without flinching. After all, he speaks the truth and she has no reason to deny it. “Several men and a woman,” she quietly corrects him. The ex-Agent has not forgotten her one female victim, nor will she. Of all the people she has killed, that one remains the most memorable of the lot.

“Ah yes, the woman with the baby if I remember correctly.”

Nodding once, Clarice watches the man’s face without blinking, wondering where this is all going. They have not yet spoken about why she had acted as she had, and she’s curious as to why. Most who attempted to converse with her often started with her acts of destruction, hoping to entice her into speaking about them. But she remained tight lipped about it all. Everything remained in the past for a reason.

“What were you thinking as you shot her, Agent Starling? Were you thinking about how the bullet might go through her body, or were you thinking about how it might feel to take another life?”

The woman huffs slightly in amusement. So all doctors are the same in the end. Thinking her a mindless killing machine who only cared about the feeling of what it was like to kill someone. For a moment she is tempted to present him with the real reason for her path of destruction, but that would be far too easy for the man. She’s curious to know just how much he wants the answers, and just how far he’d be willing to go to get the answers. 

“Neither, Doctor Lecter. I was thinking about something else entirely. However, I doubt that you like most would believe me if I told you. The truth is a fine thing, but it’s sadly something that all too often falls apart when it’s not what people want or expect to see.”

“And what exactly is the truth, Agent Starling?”

Smiling, the woman glances down at the bag where her new books hides for a moment before looking back up at the man. “I will tell you where to find the truth if you give me the book now.”

“We haven’t talked about everything I wished to discuss.”

“Well then, Doctor, it seems like you have to choose what you’re more interested in. My past or my motives for murdering. I promise you one is far more interesting than the other, and likely to give you insight to the other.”

“That’s quite the choice you’ve presented me with.”

Her smile grows as her hands fall into her lap. Leaning forward slightly, the woman knows she is close to winning her prize. All the good doctor needs is one more little push. “What do you want most, Doctor Lecter, a truth you can turn over and over in your mind until you have turned it into something entirely new and different, or the same answers given to others?”

Clarice watches the man for any sign of emotion, knowing it will likely be futile, but needing to know. Her breath catches in her chest as the man reaches for his bag and pulls out the book. Her gaze immediately locks on the leather of the front cover, where she can just make out the title _Inferno_. So she had been right. A small victory to her, one she hadn’t realized she wanted or needed.

The man pushes himself to his feet, and stands in front of the chair, watching her closely. She knows what’s coming next, and manages to keep herself from laughing when she hears, “First, you tell me where to find this truth of yours, Agent Starling.” 

“All men and women have secrets, Doctor Lecter. Sometimes you have to dig deep to find them. Sometimes under mountains depending on the severity of the secret.”

“Mountains?”

Clarice’s smile turns feral and her gaze turns back to the book. “Yes, Doctor Lecter. Mountains. Now if you would be so kind, I would appreciate the book you’re holding.”

She watches as Hannibal takes the few steps towards the feeding tray and gently sets the book inside. For a moment she expects him to struggle with the weight of the heavy metal tray, and is surprised when it slams through almost immediately. Pushing herself to her feet, she hurriedly crosses the cell to lift the book out. 

Immediately she’s hit by the smell of leather and old paper. Something she has forgotten existed, as her small collection of books has long since lost it. Holding it gently in her fingers, she brings up the spine of the book and inhales hard. Eyes closing, she smiles against the leather and allows herself to get lost in it for the briefest of moments.

At least she had thought it was brief. But when she opens her eyes to say thank you to the doctor, the first sincere thank you she had given anyone in years, she found the man gone. Blinking slowly, she glances down the corridor just in time to see the man’s back step out of her line of sight. A soft smile stretches across her face. 

“Thank you, Doctor Lecter.”


End file.
